


The Gift of the Magi

by anon-j-anon (Anon)



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Homophobia, M/M, Mind Meld, Mind Rape, Mindfuck, Minor Character Death, Non Consensual, Sexual Assault, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-17
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon/pseuds/anon-j-anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a haunted, hunted quality in those eyes. Deep grief and loneliness, that feels like his and someone else’s. Someone that was important to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. forget

**Author's Note:**

> Contains references to the TOS episode "Elaan of Troyius." I wrote this with the intent of submitting it to the 2010 K/S Advent Calendar, but didn't finish it in time and it's not in keeping with the holiday spirit (see warnings above). The prompt was to adapt O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi" to K/S.

Captain James T. Kirk of the ISS _Enterprise_ surveyed the scene before him.

Brig, two cells, one active force field, seven redshirts, two ensigns with faces so swollen their eyelids looked like purple lips. The captain stepped in—something cracked underfoot, a tooth—and smiled at the security guys. Ensign Ledgermar was on his knees, wheezing. Captain looked back at his First—Spock had an expression of distaste on his face. He preferred clean executions. The sight of all the fluids smeared on the ground and men’s knuckles made him uncomfortable.

Kirk grinned at that thought as he took Ledgermar’s face in his hands and forced open the fag’s eyelids. Ledgermar shuddered and struggled but otherwise couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t see Kirk’s face through his busted eyeballs, but he could imagine the captain’s cold smile. Could imagine sounds coming out of the captain’s lips. His hearing was gone. Everything felt like his head was filled with mucus and glycerol brain-water.

Captain James T. Kirk of the ISS _Enterprise_ surveyed the scene before him, Spock at his back, ensign’s head in his hands like a punctured football. He opened his mouth to say something—

(egg-white eyes of an Andorian peering from those swollen lids and a black wave of )

he opened his mouth to say something, thumbs digging into broken pits of cheekbones

(cold hands, cold hands cradling his head and saying, commanding something, the word smashing through his mind like a black wave of )

he opened his mouth to say something. His thumbs crushed into the cheekbones, nails clawed hair, scalp. Kirk vaguely registered the dark blood oozing under his fingertips. Ledgermar cried out as he felt the captain slowly pull his head up, as if the captain was trying to pop it off his spine. He struggled to alleviate the tension by rising from his knees, but his knees were crushed. Pants were at his ankles and the captain was still pulling slowly, relentlessly

(pulling slowly, relentlessly a body towards him, excitement mixed with fear mixed with confidence mixed with gut clenching fear and there’s no resistance, only touch of lips and a black wave of )

he opened his mouth to say something but instead found himself tilting Ledgermar’s head up. Kirk leaned down and pulled again. The ensign’s neck was stiff with desperation as he tried to get up. He crashed down. Kirk kept his cold grip on Ledgermar’s head and almost broke the ensign’s neck. He leaned down and

(a black wave rising a black wave falling a black wave gripping his mind a command sinking into his memory that tells him to forget, enveloping him in _forget_ )

he opened his mouth to say something but instead smothered Ledgermar in a perversion of a kiss, shoving his tongue in the broken man’s mouth. Kirk tasted the blood and fragments of teeth, sucked on Ledgermar’s torn gums. He felt Spock stiffen behind him. The security guys laughed. Jeered about how the fucker was getting hard, questions about how he liked it in his ass. Kirk pulled away, forced open those swollen eyes again. He stared

(egg-white eyes of an Andorian he can’t remember and the crushing feeling of desperation like a black wave of )

he opened his mouth to say something and spat into Ledgermar’s eyes. Behind him he could feel Spock going in lock-down—the Vulcan didn’t like the messy, drawn out executions that Kirk was famous for. But what’s the fun of killing someone if you can’t fuck with them first? Kirk opened his mouth to say something but instead he laughed while the security guys had a little more fun with Ledgermar, breaking the ensign’s feet while Kirk kept a firm grip on the man’s head. Spock stood behind him, black eyes unreadable, face the perfect mask of indifference. Ledgermar was begging something incomprehensible

(he hears in his raw throat incoherent screaming and the words forget, forget, forget like an echo down a black tunnel through a black wave of )

he opened his mouth to say something, thumbs digging into pits of broken cheekbones

(egg-white eyes black-hole eyes staring in through his swollen lids disappearing in a black wave of )

he opened his mouth to say something. His thumbs crushed into the cheekbones, hands moved back to support Ledgermar’s neck. Kirk opened his mouth but something inside him snapped.

He pulled. Ledgermar’s head twisted. Followed by a quiet crack that only the captain and his First could hear. The ensign’s body went limp in the captain’s hands. For a moment, something clung in the air, something that felt like intimacy. Spock stood behind him.

He let go. Ledgermar fell to the floor, swollen eyes shut, feet broken, pants around his ankles. The security guys shrugged. They wiped their knuckles on their uniforms and saluted the captain.  
Kirk opened his mouth to say something but instead smiled, throat raw with the taste of blood. His eyes were malicious, careless, vacant. Spock glanced at the body, then at the security officers with an expression of distaste. He stepped out of the cell and followed the captain to the turbolift. The captain motioned wordlessly, leaving the execution of the other queer up to the redshirts. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Spock.

“Bridge.”

The turbolift doors closed. The security guys left Ledgermar in a black pool of fluid, and moved on to the next cell.

________________________________________

(Baby mine, don’t you cry )

He was born on a starship, bastard son of a captain’s woman. Didn’t stay there long. Was on the run half the time from the vindictive bitch who was the captain’s actual wife.

Jim doesn’t know who his real father is—his mom never said. Just gave him the name James Tiberius Kirk and told him never to try and decode it. As soon as he made captain, he tried.

Nothing turned up.

(Baby mine, dry your eye )

He doesn’t remember his mom real well, mostly because she died when he was young and he got shuffled off to a UTE Displaced Children Center. But he remembers a lullaby she’d sing.

(Rest your head close to my heart )

Remembers the way she’d caress his hair, and kiss the top of his forehead, rocking him back and forth. Everyone says Jim Kirk’s got a black hole in place of a heart, but he’s got this memory. He thinks that counts for something.

(Never to part, baby of mine )

(Little one, when you play )

He’s been—he’s been having these weird memory blackouts. Like there’s a hole in his head and it used to be important but now it’s not there anymore, and he thinks it’s a good thing. Something’s telling him it’s a good thing. He doesn’t want the black wave to drown him again.

(Don’t you mind what they say )

In the middle of the blackouts he hears this lullaby and it’s creepy as fuck. There’s a haunted, hunted quality in that voice, like fear barely contained, like she’s singing it more for her than him.

(Let your eyes sparkle and shine )

Close to that sound is a vision of dark, intense eyes that he’s sure aren’t his mother’s. He can’t place them. Whenever he tries to focus on them they expand, the pupils open a black deeper than space and Jim’s falling without any sense of time or relative gravity into a voice. A word.

(Never a tear, baby of mine )

(If they knew all about you )

A word. A feeling, deep and intense, that surrounds him like a black wave of—a dark voice. There’s a haunted, hunted quality in that voice. Deep grief and loneliness. The sound of soldiers scared shitless and overwhelming exhaustion from constantly looking over your shoulder.

(They’d end up loving you too )

There’s eyes wide with fear, distrust. Holding breaths. Hiding in darkness and shaking, her arms holding him so tight she thought he’d shatter. And barely, just barely, the hope for better place, somewhere, somehow in this wide galaxy.

(All those same people who scold you )

Hurt and helplessness and feelings emerging, confused, because they don’t feel like his or his mother’s. It’s strong, not maternal. Harder and sharper. There’s a haunted, hunted quality in those eyes. Deep grief and loneliness, that feels like his and someone else’s. Someone that was important to him.

(What they’d give just for the right to hold you )

Lying in darkness and he’s shaking, body trembling like a fucking leaf, and his arms holding him so tight he thinks he’ll shatter. The sound of soldiers scared shitless, staring at blank eyes the consistency of egg whites, fear like swallowing mud.

(From your head, down to your toes)

Everyone says Jim Kirk’s got a black hole in place of a heart, but what did they expect? It’s the UTE and maybe he had a mother once, but he never knew her, only remembers her voice echoing in his head like the hum of the _Enterprise_.

(You’re not much, goodness knows )

A sudden sensation of nakedness, of exposure and exposed skin, his body lithe but under scrutiny of those black eyes, he feels his bones are thin and his skin is scarred. His blood’s too thick. Sluggish in cold, frozen in heart, heartmad in fear.

(But you’re so precious to me )

Sluggish in cold, frozen in heart, heartmad in fear, but some deep feeling that he can’t name rising like a black wave of—mixed with fear in a dark voice of—shattering strength in a desperation like—his mom’s voice haunting his head like the eyes of—someone who was precious to him somehow.

(Sweet as can be, baby of mine )

Black eyes dissolve. She’s clutching him close to her, body stiff as glass, running her fingers through his hair, singing this lullaby.

( _forget_ )

He’s been having weird memory blackouts, and as soon as he finds any kind of evidence that it was his First, he’s going to draw and quarter that two-blooded son of a nailfucker and find a replacement.

________________________________________

Tarsus Academy, United Terran Empire, 2246.

(Oracle Andoran egg whites for eyes, what do you see of our minds to comprise )

They’d been standing in the rain for two hours. He knew because he counted, keeping cadence to the rain.

(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

One hour, sixty-one minutes, counting the seconds of standing in the rain, staring at the neck of the boy in front of him, who was staring at the head of the boy in front of him, who was staring at the head of the boy in front of him, lined up in squads of ten, six squads per company, thirty one companies.

(Two. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

Oracle was walking through the lines, staring into the eyes of every cadet, who was staring at the neck of the boy in front of him, who was staring at the head of the boy in front of him, who was staring at the way the drops of rain traveled down the skin of the boy in front of him.

(Three. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

Nothing but the sound of rain hitting skin and mud, the Oracle’s boots squelching and popping as he walked from one face to another. It was fucking cold.

(Four. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

Jim’s muscles had frozen in place a long time ago. He wanted to move. He couldn’t move if he wanted to. He kept counting the seconds, keeping time with the rain.

The Oracle’s boots popped and for a terrifying second Jim’s mind went blank with fear.

(One )

(One )

(One )

(Five. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

The Oracle’s boots popped and for a terrifying second Jim’s mind went blank with fear.

(One )

(One )

(One )

(One )

(Six. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

The Oracle’s boots popped and for a terrifying second Jim’s mind went blank with fear.

He was staring into egg white eyes and his mind went black with fear.

The Oracle’s boots popped and he couldn’t move if he wanted to.

He was staring without seeing the neck of the boy in front of him staring at the neck of the boy in front of him.

He lost count.

Fuck, he lost count.

He lost count.

He lost count and his mind felt like it’d been replaced by slime and placenta and ejaculate. Like every neuron that had been firing turned to grey jelly and his field of vision was filled with yolkless eyes that were enfolding the whole of his mind so he couldn’t even hear the echo of his thoughts, only felt time stuck like a broken pendulum that couldn’t swing, but fell and stopped, fell and stops, falls and stopped, falls and stops, leaving streaks of sound in the emulsified ether.

(Kai Pi Phi Ro Tsai Mu Two Se’n Pul Sro )

Something was gripping him, a distant emotion bearing down on him like sound in water, coming from all directions but somehow never reaching him. He reached for it but his hands were dissolving in the salt water, his hands were made of silica and milk and the tissue of his skin was melting away in flakes, his blood vessels popped and released fine grey aerosols instead of blood, the calcium of his bones snapped and burst into powder.

(Heart Heath Home Hurt Hearth Hell Hint Hunt Hemp help )

He—he was doing something. Something about won. He needed to know what came after won. He was counting. He needed to know what came after won. If he could find what came after won, he could swim to the top and feel the water on his face. If he could remember—they were standing in formation. He remembers standing in formation. Formation counts the minutes. Cadets count the time. Squads of ten, companies of six, thirty-one companies. He just needs to count the cadets and he’ll know what comes after won. He knows he can’t move. So he’ll have to stand. He’ll have to stand but how can he count the cadets if he can’t see them? He needs to—he needs to swim. There’s no other way, except swimming and seeing the boy in front of him with rain with fear with ejaculate running down his neck, his eyes, his throat.

(Ejac Ejic Ejim Erim Eram Erid Erot Erotij Erotaj Erotic )

Two.

It hits him like a black wave and for a second, Jim thinks he’s gone blind. He can’t see. He can’t see, but he’s counting ejac, ejaculic, erot, eroculate, elik, esiminate, eros, erolicate. Then slowly the black dissolves, like he’s been staring at the sun, and the Oracle is staring into the eyes of the boy in front of him. Jim hasn’t moved, but he panics because he doesn’t know how much time has passed. All he’s got is homo, homogenate, homid, humiliate, horid, hosiferate, homo, hissipinate.

Time resets. He tries to remember where he was before, where he was counting before. Was it pi? Or ro? Did he use ro to count? All’s he’s got is a count to eroticusp.

Trying to remember, staring the neck of the boy in front of him, who’s staring at the ears of the boy in front of him, and Jim’s suddenly hit with the smell of rotting eggs mixed with ejaculate. The stench in his mind makes him want to double over and vomit but he can’t move, they’ve been standing in the rain for more than two hours. Something grips him, a distant emotion bearing down on him like sound in water, coming from all directions but somehow never reaching him. His mind is strangely blank as he watches the boy in front of him cry out, gripping his head as the Oracle stares at the cadet convulsing in the mud, eyes egg-white.

(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

Jim can’t move. He wants to, he wants to see the cadet because how can he count the cadets if he can’t see them? He needs to know what comes after won. Instead, he’s staring at the neck of the cadet two rows ahead of him, watching the rain travel down his skin.

(Two. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

The screams hit him like a black wave and for a second, Jim thinks he’s paralyzed. He can’t move. He can’t move, but his legs are carrying his torso from the field where they stood two hours in the rain and his hands are curled into fists. Then slowly the numbness dissolves, like he’s been asleep, and every muscle of his body is screaming at him, the screams muffled in placenta water. The movement, the cadence of his breathing and the sound of his footsteps hitting mud bring back a sense of time. Jim shakes his head. The movement clears his mind.

(Three. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

He realizes—he doesn’t remember hearing the Oracle tell them they were dismissed. But they must’ve been dismissed because all the other cadets are at their bunks, changing out of their clothes and getting ready for PT. He realizes—the boy in front of him was the boy two bunks down, their company sergeant, two years older and two years from graduation.

(Four. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

What the fuck was that for?

That nut-shitting Oracle. What the fuck was that for? And what was that running in his mind? Something about eradicate and eliminate? Eat rats and inseminate? Something deep inside him freezes at the thought, recalling the word hemisexal. That doesn’t even mean anything.

(Five. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

And it hits him that Gary is dead.

That distant emotion that was bearing down on him crashes like a fucking tsunami and James Tiberius Kirk realizes that he stood, eyes vacant, while that Andorian committed telocide in front of him. Gary’s screams are ringing in his ears like they were released on some sort of time delay and Jim, legs carrying his torso away from barracks, spews vomit down his front.

He doesn’t stop moving.

(Oracle Andoran egg whites for eyes, what do you see of our minds to comprise )

________________________________________

Oh _fuck_ that feels better than a blow job. Yeah baby right there right there, stay steady hold tight— _slam_

Kryton the Dohlman’s gorilla is shrieking while Scotty slams another superheated dilithium crystal into his elbows. Elasian blood is a weird pink color, thicker than human blood. More like the consistency of Vulcan semen. Kryton was brag and bluster when they caught him in the engine room, saying the usual ‘never take me alive,’ ‘trained in torture resistance.’ An offense against the _Enterprise _, in Scotty’s domain—it was the engineer’s prerogative.__

 _It smells ass rancid in the brig. Scotty’s brought all his best gear—mechanic stuff. Wrenches, pliers, warp coolant, copper couplings, soldering kit. Blue flame, hot blue, and Bones lent some of his universal nerve agent to see what it does to a fine specimen of Elasian health. Elaan had screamed when she’d found out they’d taken him alive. Kirk had her guards placed in individual cells—SOP._

 _Klingons are here._

 _Destruction feels better than a blow job._

 __________________________________________

 _“Relax, Jim.”_

 _He can’t relax. He can’t relax. There’s something about this that makes his blood run faster and his breathing heavy and labored. Body taut like a coiled spring. He can’t relax. Jim opens his mouth._

 _“—”_

 _Nothing._

 _Can’t say anything._

 _Something’s caught in his throat, he swears he’s gonna choke and shit oh shit what the fuck is he doing here. It feels like the same thing right before a firefight. He squeezes his eyes shut. All he can see behind his lids are those fucking egg-whites. He can’t relax._

 _“Relax.”_

 _Spock says it quietly. If it weren’t Spock, he’d say intimately._

 _Spock’s slipping fingers in and shit it feels good but shit something’s collapsing. It’s not panic. It’s not panic. He wants this. He wants it. It’s supposed to feel good. It does feel good. This is good. This is what he wants. This is what he wants. Fuck the Oracle. Fuck Tarsus Academy. Nothing to remember. Nothing to be afraid of._

 _He tries to say something, anything._

 _Fuck he can’t do this._

 _“Breathe.”_

 _Can’t. Can’t inhale or exhale, can’t do anything because there’s fear oozing in his veins, making him sluggish. Paralysis. Rigor mortis. Freezing, blood so hot but his sweat is freezing._

 _Arms tense. Fingers digging into something, he doesn’t even know what. Doesn’t care. He can’t do this. He wants this. His body wants this. No it doesn’t. This is wrong. It’s wrong. It’s perverted and sick and indecent. Those fucking egg-white eyes driving memories that aren’t his own. Fuck it. Cock shitter. He’s breathing. Inhaling. Exhaling. Feet uncurling._

 _Kneecaps locked. He’s not gagging. This isn’t fear. He wants this. No memory. No fear. He wants this. Fuck why’s he sweating so much._

 _“Jim?”_

 _He’s so focused on trying to keep the fear from spinning out of control he can’t feel Spock kissing and touching and shit. Stop. This is wrong. They’re going to get executed for this. Spock’s going to kill him. He’s going to rip him open. Shit stop. What the fuck is he saying. What’s he thinking. This isn’t._

 _Pull yourself together. Pull yourself together. Pull. Fucking PULL—_

 _Gritting his teeth. His jaw’s gonna bust under the pressure. Molars cracking. Grinding. Try to relax, try to relax. Shoulders like fused plates. Knee caps locked. Calves straining. Trying to relax, he’s got to relax. Spock can’t do all the work. His fingers are still coaxing and it feels good but this is fucking messed up shit. They’re going to flay them alive and slice off their fingers. He wants this, and it’s not panic. It’s not fear. James Kirk doesn’t fear anything. He doesn’t fear anything._

 _Spock’s still coaxing him, slowly coaxing him. When he gets the images of egg-whites out of his eyes, he see Spock’s eyes, dark and impenetrable. He can’t read them._

 _He can’t do this._

 _But it feels so good._

 _And someone’s saying—it might be Spock, he has no idea—telling him to let go. Let go and stop. Let go, stop. Stop, let go. Stop go, let. Let stop, go. Spock’s building a rhythm and he’s easing into it somehow._

 _Stop go, let. Let stop, go. Let go and stop._

 _A memory washes over him, of the last time he did this. Tried to do it. Not in Tarsus, not in sixteen million years. No the crap-fucking way. No, he tried to do this when he was a lieutenant, when Pike was captain._

 _There was nothing about that memory he wants to keep. Nothing. It wasn’t awkward. It was terrible. It was suffocation, like someone with asthma breathing out of a straw in a reduced oxygen atmosphere. Better to hold your breath and die than try to squeeze some air into deformed lungs when there’s no hope of survival. He wasn’t the one being prepared like this. Like whatever Spock’s doing with his fingers._

 _Shit that feels good._

 _Fuck he can’t do this._

 _Jaws untensing one muscle at a time. No, that one encounter with that one ensign or engineer or whoever the fuck it was, Jim thought that enough lube could make up for anything and slammed into the other guy._

 _The other guy, they did it in the dark without names and faces because fucking UTE. Grandmother shitcakes UTE. Jim saw outlines of darkness, of a mouth shaped opening biting on a fist shaped lump and desperate sounds made deep in the backs of throats. Deep throats. Fucking mouths._

 _Spock does something that makes his body feel like a current just ran through it. He’s tense again. Fists. Clenched jaws. Closed throats._

 _Trying to say something, anything, but swallowing any sound he could make. If he moans, he might not stop. He might start screaming, or crying, or shaking, or sobbing, because that current feels like pleasure and he’s never felt this good, but he’s running electric on fear again. This isn’t the sweet kind of fear that people like during sex. This isn’t thrill or anticipation._

 _It makes you sick. If he actually thought about it he’d go to the fresher and throw up. This is UTE fear. It has its own special stink and stop. Let go, stop. Stop, let go. Go stop, let. Let stop, go._

 _Stop, let go._

 _Rhythm. How the hell did Spock get so good at this. It feels so good, stop._

 _This is wrong, go._

 _Let go, this is what he wants, go._

 _They’re going to kill them for this. They’re going to torture them first, and slice off knuckles, and bloody wrists, and twist kneecaps. They’re going to spit and make red-brown ooze from corners of eyelids. This is wrong. This is wrong. This is perverted._

 _This is fear._

 _Shit, stop. Stop, can’t do this._

 _Let go, stop._

 _Try to say something, try to say something. He wants this, he’s never felt so good._

 _I’m not queer._

 _I’m not a fagging queer._

 _Stop, let go._

 _I’m a captain, I’m not a homo cockstuffer._

 _Stop, let go._

 _Can’t let go. Memories burned. Smell of burnt plastic. Stink of singed hair and frying skin. Do you know what they do to people like that? Do you know what they do?_

 _Forget. Forget.  
Do you know what they do to people like that? It’s going to happen to me. I’m not. That’s not. We’re not. This isn’t._

 _This isn’t._

 _I’m not._

 _Not._

 _This isn’t what I want. It’s not right. This is wrong. This isn’t right. I’ve never felt so good but this isn’t right. Wrong wrong wrong_

 _I’m not. We’re not. This isn’t. I’m not._

 _Can’t forget. Can’t forget. Burning by egg-white eyes. Can’t forget._

 _Smell of plastic acrid in the air. Sounds far away and distant. This isn’t. This isn’t negotiable. I’m not. We’re not._

 _I’ve never felt so good._

 _“Breathe, Jim.”_

 _He says it quietly, dark eyes unreadable, and Jim thinks it’s a desperate intimacy. What the fuck. Where did that. How even. What. I’m not. I’m not._

 _His mind is desperately running in circles as pleasure mounts, and he’s never felt so free before even as fear spikes up his arm like a pack of thick needles. He’s never felt so insecure, and sure, and free, and open and it terrifies him, terrifies that it’s a confirmation, he never wanted, this was never a choice, if he could choose he’d stop, if he could stop, he’d choose._

 _Let go, stop. Stop, go let._

 _Spock seems so sure but Jim thinks there’s a desperate intimacy, a hunger that reflects his. He gasps when Spock’s there, when Jim uncoils, he gasps and breathes in air, real air, into lungs, unconstricted. Somehow they’re here, they’re doing this, Spock’s meticulous, and precise, and everything Jim wants, and he’s never felt so good before, and his breath comes faster, lighter, anticipating, and he’s never felt so good before._

 _Flashes of memories, fear drilling into the sockets of his shoulders, hammering against his ribcage, and Spock’s so close, and this feels like something official, like a confirmation of something he never wanted. Stop. Let go, stop. Go let, stop. I’m not a queer. I’m not a fucked asshole. I’m not a queer. I’m not. We’re not. This isn’t._

 _Spock does something with his fingers, or tongue, or something, Jim doesn’t know and he inhales. Gulps in air. Like a man coming out of a tank of methane. Swallows the oxygen whole. He’s not relaxed. He’s not. This isn’t. It’s wrong. He’s never felt so good in his life._

 _Fear hacking into his brain like a machete. Fear hewing out his lungs. Fear squeezing his spinal cord, the muscles of his back rigid._

 _But Spock’s not patient anymore, and something inside Jim shatters as he’s opened up. He doesn’t know what shatters. Something. Pieces. Falling. Sounds. Burning plastic. Joints popping. Bones splintering. Memories. Things. He’s never felt so good before. Facts. Not and are and is and was._

 _Not. This isn’t. I’m not._

 _It’s torture, isn’t it. It’s torture._

 _Stop. Let go._

 _Forget._

 _I can’t._

 _Forget._

 _I can’t. I’m not. This isn’t._

 _Stop, let go._

 _Stop, let go._

 _Stop._

 _Let go._

 _“Say my name, Jim.”_

 _I can’t._

 _“Say my name.”_

 _Stop, let go. Forget._

 _Throat like sandpaper. Screams stuck in his Adam’s apple. Nothing._

 _I can’t._

 _He clenches his jaw, grinds his teeth, fists the sheets, sweats cold and hot. Moves against Spock without knowing what the music sounds like or if it’s just screaming, but neither of them make a sound. The silence eats into them as heat burns in their blood and they’re tense, so tense, fear like a knot between them._

 _He’s never felt so good before._

 _I’m not. This. I feel._

 _Stop._

 _It’s messy, and there’s no reprieve after the fall. Spock pulls out, gets up, goes to the fresher. Shuts the door._

 _Jim lies there. Chest rising and falling. Skin clammy. Cold sweat. He needs to destroy these sheets. He wants to burn the bed._

 _Because he’s not a queer. This bed. Evidence. Reminder. Of fucked up things. He’s never felt so good before._

 _He gets up. Walks to the fresher door. Touches the paneling._

 _Turns away, gut twisted in cold knots. Touches the paneling. Touches his lips. Touches himself._

 _(say my name)_

 _He pushes away the panic like vomit up his throat and opens his eyes. Listens to the sonics. Imagines Spock in there. Standing. Touching himself. Dark eyes with intimate desperation._

 _Jim closes his eyes. Touches himself, and touches the paneling. Exhales slowly, shoulders sagging, kneecaps untwisting, heart unfolding. Touches himself, and touches the paneling. And whispers._

 _“Spock.”_

 __________________________________________

 _It feels so good._

 _Wetness and tongues pressing together, and it feels so good. Arms wrapped around him, back pressed into the wet field, sweaty skin and it feels so good._

 _(Replay )_

 _It feels so good, right somehow. He feels his body responding to this touch, finds his blood running quicker through the arteries. Out of breath anyway, running the whole game, legs burning with lactic acid and that feels good, has always felt good, but this feels like a revelation._

 _(Tarsus Academy, the intramural football game )_

 _A revelation, like the revelation that destruction is beautiful. The rush he gets launching a missile, rigging a makeshift RPG, shooting up a starship. That’s a rush. Adrenaline, flying close to the enemy and barely making it out alive. It’s a thrill. This is a thrill, these lips on his and these legs straddling. That’s a revelation. A thrill, a right, a revelation. Worlds open._

 _(Replay: Tarsus Academy, intramural football game, semifinal round, Echo Company vs. Oscar company, score tied 1-1 in the first half )_

 _Worlds open, mouths open, breaths exchange, tongues meet. Spit exchanged, and touch. Hands under shirts, back pressed into the wet field. Vague awareness that teammates are watching, keeping their distance. Time has stopped for him. Because it feels so good, the tightening in his stomach, the way something audibly clicks in his mind. There’s nothing in his mind but sensation, pure feeling of kisses, grass, and rain. It’s raining. Mud smeared over bodies, under uniforms._

 _(The first half, Echo and Oscar were evenly matched. Oscar pulled ahead in the second half with a goal in the 50th minute, then Echo couldn’t get a goal until the 78th minute. They went into overtime. Everyone was out to see the semifinal round. It started raining during halftime, but everyone stayed )_

 _It feels so good. He didn’t know it was possible to feel this good._

 _He’s just scored the winning goal and it feels so good. They’re going to the finals. It’s their game. There’s no way Oscar’s getting a goal in two minutes. He scored the winning goal, he’s the hero of the game, and they’re laughing and kissing and slapping him. Giddy with happiness, drunk on victory._

 _Knocked over by some punk who tackles him to the soggy grass and wraps his arms around.  
Time stops. He didn’t know it was possible for things to get better._

 _(Cadet Kirk scored the winning goal for Echo Company, advancing them to the finals. In the celebration that followed among the teammates, it was unclear what was going on. The situation rapidly articulated itself. Everyone backed away. Backed away. It’s illegal. It’s prohibited behavior. It’s _illegal_ )_

Time stops and it feels so good.

Wetness and tongues pressing together, until he feels the warmth of a body being pulled away, shoved and forced, distant sounds and a bewildering silence. He feels himself being lifted off the field, legs underneath stumbling, uncoordinated. He’s just scored the winning goal. What’s going on?

(Referees separate the two cadets. Both will be punished, one—to be rehabilitated. The other to be eliminated. Standard procedure. There’s hope for Kirk yet )

He’s just scored the winning goal. Why’re they staring at him like that. Why’re they taking him away? Time is rushing towards him with a roaring sound but his mind’s still in a haze. Why’re they looking at him like that? What’re they saying? He felt so good—what’s the crime in feeling good?

(There’s hope for Kirk yet, to weed out this unfortunate bud. A promising cadet. Once it’s made clear to him the nature of his crime, he’ll understand. An unfortunate incident. Could be left off the record, if he completes rehab without any problems )

He feels so good, and what’s the crime in feeling good? The winning goal, and body responding to the adrenaline, action, victory, and skin. It was a revelation. It was a revelation. Good and right. It’s his right.

(Replay: Tarsus Academy, intramural football game, Cadet Kirk was kissed by a fellow cadet, said cadet having exhibited abnormal tendencies in the past, having completed rehabilitation, now scheduled for execution, Cadet Kirk scheduled for rehabilitation. Course B )

It’s his right. It’s his right.

Time stops. Staring into egg-white eyes, and the comprehension. The revulsion. Total disgust and disbelief. Denial coursing through him, fear seeping out his eyeholes.

Jim opens his mouth to say something, but he’s assailed with images and graphic recollections of every touch, every feeling, everything perverted and inverted by the eyes of the Oracle. Everything painted with fear. He opens his mouth to say something but his mouth freezes, and he feels dirty, sick. It feels so good, and he’s sick with the taste of another boy’s saliva. It’s impossible. It’s illegal. It’s _illegal_.

(Course B, as Cadet Kirk has never exhibited perverted tendencies prior to this one incident. Youth suggests susceptibility, and to prevent it from ever manifesting again, Course B is appropriate )

It’s felt so good, but it wasn’t good, and shame fills him. He can’t stand the stares. They’re all staring at him. He’s not a fag. He’s not a fag. He’s normal, and it wasn’t his fault. He was attacked. Queers aren’t contagious, are they? He’s not a fag. Fear is swallowing him because he’s not a fag. He’s not. No one is. He’s not. He’s going to be a captain.

(Cadet Kirk completely cooperative in following our plan of action )

Egg-white eyes condemning him with blind judgment, sifting his mind and impressing in him the stench of fear, the choking shame. The smell of burning plastic. The complete awareness of his perverted tendencies, the necessity to fear, and fear and fear. Fear oneself, fear others. Fear the empire, fear the body. Treachery, and treason, and hanging, and lynching. Eyes, eyes everywhere, everywhere.

(Baby mine don’t you cry )

He’s not a queer.

(Baby mine dry your eye )

He’s _not_ a _fucking_ queer.

(Course B, and the other scheduled for due termination. Course B is appropriate. A good choice, the right protocol. Course B will provide the cure and a black wave of )

Hands. Hands grabbing. Dragging him away. Off the field, and all the eyes on him, wide eyes, mocking and angry and hating and malicious eyes, but the Oracle says nothing. He’s dragged away, he struggles against it but egg-white eyes condemn him with blind judgment. Fag, fag, fag. Queer, queer, queer. Burn, teach, fear.

(Rest your head close to my heart )

He can’t hear anything. Nothing but a distant roar ringing in his ears. Disconnect. He’s not a queer. Stop. Where are they going. Stop. He won’t do it again. Stop, where are they going. Stop, this wasn’t supposed to happen, it was an accident, stop. Stop, let go. Let go. Let go. It was a mistake. Stop. It won’t happen again. Let go. Let go, he’s not a queer. It’s not his fault. Stop, nothing makes sense. Let go, let go. Where are they going. He won the game. He won the game. What comes after won? What comes after won?

(Never to part )

Stop, let go. Let go, stop. Where, where, where. _WHERE_.

It felt so good. It was an accident. It felt so good. He’s normal. Nothing wrong. Stop—

(Baby of mine )

________________________________________  
________________________________________  
________________________________________  
________________________________________  
________________________________________  
________________________________________


	2. remember

Memory, clean and clear of Spock steady, loving, sure, memory of triggers and Jim’s shaking, so afraid remembering broken knees and slit eyelids and punishment torture, something about discipline prolonged.

Baby mine don’t you cry—

Getting lost in memory until it wasn’t him and her touching, breathing, groaning, but him and him, him and dark eyes touching, searching for the source of his shaking, the nightmares that plagued him, the sleepless nights hearing but not remembering screams, a song, screams, a song, and the first time he approached him he was skittish, scared to find that eyes were watching and tides were waiting, eyes were watching and tides were waiting to engulf him in a pit of seventeen times, of muscle memory, and the first time they did it he was fighting some instinct not instinct to bite, and pierce, and break, and rend. He didn’t know where it came from, but the instinct not instinct was deep in him, he was fighting a black wave and white eyes as he felt green limbs encircle him, as he felt dark eyes search, full of an expression he didn’t know but had in a sliver of memory, in a lullaby, in a voice singing so sad not to cry, not to cry, not to cry, but the only thing he could do was cry out, cry in, tears but not tears, desire soaking his skin, and he couldn’t remember how they met, how it started, why he took the chance and why Spock took the chance.

Maybe it happened similar to this, maybe it was born of desperation so familiar and grief profound mixed with desire so strong and he wanted so much to remember when Spock came into his life, Spock who was always there in his solid presence, Spock who he never questioned and he took for granted that always have and always will be, always was and always had been, always is and always is being—he wanted to know why, when, how, what, but a voice was crashing through his mind, that voice full of loss and grief and desire strong as Jim’s, yet that voice was sweeping through, cutting the black waves and black tides and black pools and egg-white eyes telling him, saying in feelings not words, asking him ‘forget.’

Asking.

Asking, not demanding, and he had wanted it so bad, wanted it so bad, wanted longed fucking dreamed of forget for so long that he embraced it and the word wept through him, the word swept through him, cut like a scythe and everything was lost. The how, why, when, what. Only a few residual pieces remained, but not the how, why, when, what. And now that he knew he was missing these pieces that were essential but not vital, important but not survival, what was he supposed to do? He had pieces, he had an understanding that the structure existed but it was burned, no hope of reconstruction, and what was he supposed to do. What was he supposed to do, what could he do, what did he want to do, why had Spock burned down the house, their house, why had he left but not left, why was he still at Jim’s side. Did he remember did he know?

How could he stay while Jim went on a campaign executing fags and not fags and could be queer and were not queers, how could he watch while Jim spit in swollen bleeding eyes in his desperate search for what he was missing, what he feared, what he was missing, what he wanted but couldn’t admit because of the layers of memory melted and burned. The holes in his head like coral, like igneous rock, like fossils of old things once alive but now buried in rock and the geologic recordings of fire. In the distance another memory not memory, conviction, a feeling, some fundamental understanding of himself.

Elaan’s eyes were closed. Tears still on her cheeks, tears smeared on his shoulders, tears sinking into skin, inducing desire, waking feelings. Fear, but something else. Fear, but something strong. He looked down at her and could for a moment reach out and sympathize, honestly, sincerely, could for a moment look back and think his actions cruel. Could for a moment wonder about the system in which he found himself living, operating, working, fighting, the system he perpetuation and upheld and validated and believed in, bought into before he knew he was buying anything. Tears on his forearms, tears wept into his hair and a woman’s voice, his mother’s voice singing

Baby mine don’t you cry  
Baby mine dry your eye  
Rest your head close to my heart  
Never to part, baby of mine

He disentangled himself from her warm body of not Spock entwined around him and went to his desk.

If they knew all about you  
They’d end up loving you too  
All those same people who scold you  
What they’d give just for the right to hold you

He sat down and pulled out something long forgotten and not forgotten. Pulled out something he’d been tempted to throw away because he couldn’t remember why he’d bought it, what it meant, why it mattered, when had he ever bought stories or been interested in reading. He’d never had time or patience for anything so old and sentimental. But he stopped short of throwing it away because of conviction, some vague feeling of determination that he had wanted something more. He wanted something more than fear. He wanted something more than fear.

And it was a miracle. It was a miracle that he wanted something more than fear. It was a gift. Something precious and astronomically rare to want something more than fear, to be willing to risk every single day the whole of his self, the pieces of his mind. Wanted something so bad that he would live with the shaking and the surety that this will cost him the _Enterprise_ , he’ll be stripped of rank and privilege and when they find him, they’ll torture him, maim him, use his body as an example for everyone else to see, punishment and deterrent and his name a perversion, a sign of queerness and worse than that—

Worse than that—

Worse than that, they’ll do it Spock. They might even make him watch. They might make him tear apart the most precious thing in his universe and that knowledge makes him shake, the fear makes him desperate. But—

But—

 _But_ —

Spock knew that. Spock knew that, and was willing to risk it for this true thing, this honest feeling they have. Spock was willing to live with that fear and so Jim had decided. Jim had decided he would too. He wanted Spock more than fear. _He_ wanted _more_ than fear.

That was the miracle. It was a gift, so powerful that it survived ‘forget.’

“One dollar and eighty-seven cents.”

The story he wanted to give.

“One dollar and eighty-seven cents.”

A collection of short stories that he’d gathered, commissioned some printer on some planet to produce it in paper and cloth in the form of a book.

“That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies.”

He had been racking his brain to find something appropriate for Spock—something that wouldn’t raise suspicion if their quarters were ever searched and raided, but something that actually meant something in this terrifying and confusing thing they had. Something true to the honest feelings between them, no matter the fear.

“Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher’s until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied.”

Something happened in the time of their meeting and his intentions. He hadn’t been able to give anything, he was left with gaps in memory that could not be explained but for the voice ‘forget’ whispered in his ear. Touch at his brow. He wanted to know the why and how and when, he wanted to remember the what. It was gone. He had wanted it.

“Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents.”

He had wanted it, but he had wanted something more than fear. Wanted, but wanted more. Missing, disoriented, voices, songs. Tears, the sound of soldiers scared shitless and overwhelming exhaustion from constantly looking over shoulders. What. _What_?

Tarsus Academy, 2246.

“And the next day would be Christmas.”

Oracle Andoran egg-whites for eyes, what do you see of our minds to comprise?

He didn’t think. Didn’t stop to wonder. Just threw on a uniform, scent of sex and sweat still on him. Picked up the book, ran to Spock’s quarters. Keyed his override.

“And the next day would be Christmas.”

Oracle Andoran egg-whites for eyes, what do you see of our minds to comprise?

Spock was standing there, expression open. He opened his mouth to say something but Jim said

But you’re so precious to me, sweet as can be, baby of mine.

“I remember.”

________________________________________

Tarsus Academy, 2246, Rehabilitation Course B

It was something that never needed to be said. Everyone knew. He knew, he knew it so deep inside him that he never would have known he could have perverted tendencies until someone kissed him and he enjoyed it. If they never kissed him, it would never have happened. He knew this. He felt it. He’d be like his bastard of a father, be a captain with a captain’s woman that he’d throw away whenever he got bored. That’s how it worked, and he knew how it worked, and it never occurred to him, it never entered is conscious thought to touch another boy except to hit him. He’s not a fag. He’s not. He’d know if he were a pervert, he’d have killed himself a long time ago. Killed himself because queers aren’t captains and they weren’t much of anything else either. That’s who it works, and everyone knows. No one needs to say it out loud because that’s how it works. This is the understood deeper whatever perverted tendencies he doesn’t have bottled in him.

The Oracle sees to his rehabilitation personally. Because he’s such a promising boy, such a shame that a little contact could ruin a prospective captain.

Do you want to be a captain, Kirk?

He asks, mind to mind.

Do you want to command? There are only two kinds of people in the galaxy, Kirk: those who serve the UTE, and those who command it. Which are you? Perhaps you’re neither. Perhaps, Kirk, you don’t belong to the UTE, our great empire. You know what that means, Cadet? Do you know what it means to be an exile of the United Terran Empire?

(baby mind don’t you cry)

It’s your choice, Kirk. It’s completely up to you whether you belong or not. To command or not. Choose wisely, boy. Choose carefully. Think. _Feel_.

If it had been his choice, he would have denounced it immediately and returned to his company, rehab done. But this was the UTE, and the Andorian was legendary for a reason. He was the kind of sick that graduates aspired to, the kind of cruel that they all strove to surpass. Few could boast that honor—the Oracle’s brilliance lie in his creativity. His punishments were innovative. Cutting edge torture.

Jim opened his mouth to say something, to agree, to spit in the Oracle’s eyes and tell him he’s not a queer, never was, never will be, but the Oracle looked at him and the words were stuck in his throat.

“Bring him in.”

They dragged a boy in—the boy who acted on impulse and instinct and kissed Kirk on that field. They immobilized him.

Kiss him.

A command. From egg whites. He opened his mouth to say something, to say anything, to refuse and stand up for himself or the boy in front of him, who knows. He opened his mouth to say something but—

Kiss him, Cadet Kirk. What part of that command do you fail to understand.

He stared into those eyes and saw nothing but white, sick white and then

Something pulled inside his brain. Something slammed, slipped up from under his subconscious, everything unspoken crashing down to the forefront of his mind, overwhelming the frontal cortex and he gasped. His vision shifted, he was hot and shaking, something was washing over him and his vision narrowed, his nostrils flared. When he heard the voice again saying so softly, so quietly, promising new things that felt good and revolutionary, promising secrets he didn’t even know existed— _kiss him_.

He hesitated, but walked towards Gary. Gary, who was saying something in a pleading voice. Gary, whose eyes were wide with fear, like he was trying to warn Jim, but Jim didn’t hear anything but _kiss him_ ringing in his years, a black pool forming in the back of his mind.

So he did. Mouth closed, and it came so naturally. Mouth closed, he pressed into Gary and felt the other boy try to turn away, but Jim was persistent, always persistent, so persuasive and convincing, so sure of the promises and for once in his wretched life fearless that this was right, this was true, this was the only reality, the best reality the universe could offer. He felt it when Gary gave in and opened his mouth, when their world reduced to the epiphany that the UTE must have been wrong to deny the rightness of something so wrong as this. There must be a mistake. This was queer?

Gary groaned and it sounded like pleasure, but it sounded like desperation, like a goodbye and Jim had no idea why he was saying goodbye when this was only the beginning. Only the beginning—a black wave ripped through his mind and there was nothing. He pulled back. Saw Gary, lips kiss swollen, eyes red. Jim felt with disbelief his own wet lips. He looked up and saw the Oracle smiling at him.

You enjoyed it.

A black wave ripped through him and he was dizzy, gasping, reeling on his knees clutching his head and hearing Gary’s voice like a light at the end of the tunnel shouting, telling the fucker to leave them alone, screaming at him that he was sick, this was wrong, they didn’t do anything wrong, the system was twisted, they weren’t a disease or a perversion to be eliminated. Jim doubled over as he started throwing up on the floor, unable to help his reactions, and the black wave reached in and grabbed his guts because this was wrong. They were unnatural. Everyone knew, everyone knew the order and the way things worked in the UTE, no one said anything about it because everyone knew, no one needed to say anything, there was nothing that needed to be said, he was throwing up everything and dry heaving, shaking, sweating, fear filling the pit in his stomach, black tides tasting like pools of vomit.

His vision was narrowing again, he was hyperventilating, there wasn’t enough air he could get into his lungs as the stench of rotten eggs filled him from his fingers to his shoulders, up his neck and into his brain stem. He was shivering again, afraid, terrified, fingers trembling, repulsed, disgusted, so so so dirty and filthy and wrong and something foreign, something black and white and sliming like mucus was filling his mind, something that felt cold as the whites of eggs and viscous as tar. He heard a voice, the feeling, the amusement and malice of the Oracle, the malice, the hatred, something Jim could never hope to explain but understood perfectly in the mess of the emotion.

He heard Gary saying that they did nothing wrong, there was nothing wrong with being queer, but if _this_ fag hadn’t kissed him, he wouldn’t be here; if this _fag_ hadn’t done this and messed everything up, Jim could’ve been a captain; if this _cock_ sucking _sick_ hole hadn’t been perverted and queer and wrong in the first place, if this screwbitch hadn’t _existed_ to begin with, Jim wouldn’t have these problems because he’s _not queer_ and he’s going to a captain with captain’s wives and what needs to happen is _this_ queer needs to be ripped apart, his world needs to be destroyed, he needs to disappear, not exist, he needs to pay for what he’s done to Jim. He needs to pay. This dickbag is _sick_ , and _ill_ , and _twisted_ , and he needs to know that there are _no queers_ in the motherfucking UTE, there are no perverts and cockcushions in the UTE, there is only glory, and conquest, and blood, and empire in the UTE. This speeddicked son of a space faggot needs to pay.

The Oracle didn’t even need to give the command. Jim was kicking, punching, biting, launching himself at Gary, compelled by his own fear and a black pool of alien thought in the back of his mind, the image of egg-white eyes burning into his mindspace.

Tearing, screaming, breaking. Gary unable to fight back. Trying to rip the fucker’s jaw open, trying to gouge out his eyes. Make him stop watching, make him stop watching. Breaking bone, breaking wrists and twisting so hard, determined to make shards come through skin. Leave the fag in agony, leave the fag in fagony, leave, leave. Because that’s what he deserves for being this, for forcing other people, for being contagious, for touching Jim. That’s what he gets for making, for thinking, for _daring_ —

He was about to dislocate a knee when the rage, the blackness, all the feelings howling in him left. Disappeared into the pool, receded like the tide. He stopped. Jim stopped, and he saw Gary.

Eyes swelling, lip busted, nose broken, cheeks crushed in, arm dangling. Ribs broken, feet broken. Toes—

Feet. Those feet.

Had been able to dribble a ball up the field faster than anyone. Could bend a ball around a wall of defenders. Passed forward, backward, sideways, across the field, always finding their mark. Had been uncompromising. Soles covered in calluses. Kicked from the corner. Sprinted. Cleated. Blood blisters. Sprained ankles. Those feet.

And the realization slammed through him—his own realization, not the black wave or the white eyes—it choked him and he understood that this was his reeducation. Looking at those busted eyes and busted feet, Jim knew that Gary had been through this too. Had stared at another boy’s body after he’d been compelled to kiss, and break, and kiss, and break, until he was dizzy with fear and his body simply reacted. Until he understood his lesson and the implacable order of the UTE, that the only way to fix a queer was to make it fear itself, or kill it. Jim saw Gary and understood too that queerness must be a tenacious thing, for it to reemerge despite the education. Gary had kissed him—a natural reaction that he didn’t think about twice, that had felt so right and in that one glorious moment, nothing had mattered but the heat between their bodies.

He understood something, for the first and last time, without fear. Without fear.

So he slowly and slowly—almost gently—kissed Gary again. Kissed the places he’d broken and bruised, pressed apologies into Gary’s skin, understanding that by the end of this, he’s going to kill Gary. By the end of this he’s going to be mindnumb with fear, body brought in line, instincts reprogrammed, black waves and the Oracle’s eyes ever watching. And this thing that feels so good, so right, like a sweet revelation, like a firecracker, is going to be tainted with the taste of blood, and broken teeth, and fear. But he tries to remember this one moment, tries to hold onto this connection he has: the desperate and small understanding that he’s queer, and there’s nothing wrong with that. There’s _nothing_ wrong with that.

What he doesn’t know and will never remember is that the Oracle’s dealt with this problem before, more times than Jim can imagine, and the Oracle knows that James Tiberius Kirk wants to be captain more than he wants to be queer. For that reason alone, he will be a successful rehabilitation. By the end of his education, Kirk will have sucked off Mitchell and will forever associate that taste with raw, bleeding feet. He will have fingered Mitchell’s hole and remember that as slicing off knuckles. He will remember a broken body and broken face, eyes swollen like purple lips, pits of cheekbones, crushed knees, with filthy, unwilling pleasure. He will remember mindfucks and he will remember sweat and deep purple. He will remember struggling against order to kiss Mitchell’s shattered mouth one last time, and remember that he was never able to grant the boy the mercy of death.

Because the Oracle’s reeducation is meant to sink deep. They’re not done. Mitchell will be sent off to the best medical facilities to be patched up while Kirk gets a memory wipe. Standard procedure removal of all conscious recollections and associations, retaining only the the unconscious impressions and muscle memory. Then, when Mitchell’s skin and bones have been knitted together again and Kirk’s mind is up to par, he makes Kirk act it out again.

Again.

Again.

Seventeen is the magic number. The Oracle’s learned from experience. Seventeen times leaves a truly lasting impression. The cadet’s reactions are better than normal, stronger than normal. It has to be stronger than normal to overcome the unfortunate tendency towards perversion. The eighteenth time, the Oracle brings Kirk into the room, orders him to kiss Mitchell, and his thoughts are clear. Pure revulsion.

Rehabilitation Course B has been successfully completed.

Foolproof methods.

Because he’s a lesson he’ll never forget, and a lesson he’ll never remember.

The Oracle makes certain of it.

________________________________________

“I remember.”

Spock stepped towards the door—towards him. They closed, locked. His eyes were fixed on Jim, and there was an expression Jim couldn’t read. His chest tightened. He stared back, waited. But Spock didn’t move. He stood before Jim, with that look on his face that wasn’t anger or surprise or disapproval or horror, or anything Jim had played out in his head.

Jim stepped towards him, then stopped. His hands went out, then retracted.

“Spock?”

Spock kept staring at Jim with that look on his face. What was it—incredulity, maybe. Disbelief.

“Spock? I—I remember. Not everything,” Jim inhaled. “Not everything, but enough.”

“You remember,” Spock repeated, as if the fact didn’t sink in ever after he’s run it through all his highest level processors.

“I remember. Fragments, here and there. Your face. The smell of burning plastic. Not everything. Some emotions. Colors. A room.”

“Colors.”

“Yeah. Mostly red. A lot of red. And some green. I think it was blood.”

Spock looked around the room curiously.

“You’re certain you remember?” he said, voice soft and detached.

“Not everything. A lot’s blurry. Like—like recovering data from a corrupted drive. I—I don’t think I’ll get those back anytime soon. But yeah. I remember—I remember us.”

Spock’s gaze suddenly turned sharp, almost predatory. Jim recognized it for what it was—his First’s line of defense. He suppressed a shudder as Spock stepped towards him, the movement like knives and scalpels. Spock pressed his fingers against Jim’s temples, his touch cold and scientific. Jim didn’t move.

When Spock let his hand drop, Jim automatically moved out of range. He’d put himself on the line. He’d bet that Spock wouldn’t kill him. He’d bet something else too, but now he didn’t know what it was and why he’d thought it.

Spock looked at Jim, eyes unreadable again. But something about how he held himself was different. Not so unforgiving.

“Jim,” he drew close once more, this time the distance between them intimate. “If you would allow me to show you something—” he held up his hand to Jim’s face, eyes asking for permission.

Jim swallowed, then nodded.

Those green fingers pressed against his skin. And then, a sensation of unwrapping something, untying a memory from strings of neurons and the tissue paper of myelin. He heard, more than saw, what Spock unloosed from the folds of his hippocampus.

It was a word. And a feeling. A desire to alleviate pain. A longing to give him something no one in the United Terran Empire could ever give.

Whispered softly, intimately into his ear. A word like a scythe cutting through dry grass, like a match to a piece of oiled paper, shredding and burning away the sick fear that haunted him, the nauseating terror that he carried like coal dust in his lungs. Taking with it nearly the entirety of their relationship. Taking with it the feeling of warm fingers pressed against his face, and the memory of a word, whispered quietly, certainly. An undercurrent of a Vulcan’s deep emotions, their searing passions, submerged, restricted.

He heard, more than saw, Spock’s gift, a gift he was never meant to remember.

‘forget’

 _forget_

(forget, t’hy’la. for if the cost of love is a life of fear, it is too high a price. if the cost of love is a life of fear, )

 _so forget, t’hy’la. forget_

I remember.

I _remember_.

It was Christmas. Or Christmas Eve. We had sex. Afterwards, I couldn’t stop shaking, and I didn’t know why. I couldn’t stop shaking. I remember. I couldn’t stop shaking.  
You made it stop. I remember, you made it stop. I fell asleep, Christmas Eve. We were supposed to exchange presents. I woke up and couldn’t remember why I bought that present. That book. Who it was for.

(forget, t’hy’la. for if the cost of love is a life of fear, it is too high a price)

I told you once that the only thing I wanted in the world was to forget. To get rid of the fear—memories—that Andorian branded into me. I don’t remember what that memory was. I know I had it. You don’t carry something like that for that long without it leaving a black wave.

I told you once. That wasn’t the only time I couldn’t stop shaking, was it? That wasn’t the only time. You gave me what I needed. I don’t want to remember the shaking.

(forget, t’hy’la. for if the cost of love is a life of fear, it is too high a price)

You made it stop. You made me forget. You made the shaking stop. You—you gave up everything for me.

(forget, t’hy’la. for if the cost of love is a life of fear, it is too high a price)

 _The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house._

You gave up everything for me. Because of the shaking.

You were unhappy, t’hy’la. Desperately afraid, desperately unhappy.

You gave up everything for me. Made me forget. I don’t remember everything, but I remember this—I was going to give it to you for Christmas, but I never had the chance.

Jim?

Take it. I want you to have it. I want you—

 _They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifs were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication._

There’s a short story in there. Old, Terran, “The Gift of the Magi.” It’s about—it’s about two people who—two young people who give—who find—who make presents. Gifts. For Christmas. For each other. They give up their most valuable possessions to give something precious to each other. It turns out—he gives her combs, but she cut her hair. She cut her hair to buy him a watch chain. But he pawned his watch to buy her combs. See?

Yes.

I woke up and I couldn’t remember what I was going to do with the book, but I knew it was important. Because—Spock. You gave me what I wanted most. But I was going to tell you that it’s worth it. The price. I was going to give you the book and tell you—I can live with the fear. I don’t—I didn’t need to forget, if you were there.

Jim—

You gave me what I wanted most. You gave me what I wanted most. You gave up everything, risked everything, to make me forget. To eliminate the fear. Spock—

 _And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house._

Spock, I wanted to tell you, to give you—everything. I wanted to tell you that it’s worth it. I can live with the fear. You gave me what I wanted most, but I wanted you more. I wanted you more.

You were so desperately afraid, t’hy’la. I saw—I felt what the Andorian had done. The damage was too deep. It may still be too deep; you’re shaking.

I’m not shaking because I’m afraid, Spock. I want you. It took me forever to remember. I might’ve lost you and never known. Never realized. But I kept the book because it felt important. I can live with fear. We’re UTE, we always live in fear. But I almost forgot—I almost lost—what’s sacred to me. Because you gave me what I’d wanted. I wanted to tell you that it’s worth it.

You’re shaking.

I’m not shaking because I’m afraid. I’m shaking because I want to remember you. Us.

Not yet, Jim. Time.

 _But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest._

You know what she says to him, when she opens her present and sees the combs? She says ‘my hair grows so fast! My hair grows so fast!’ She’d wanted those combs so badly, but she sold her hair for twenty dollars to buy him a watch chain, and when she got the combs but lost her hair she said ‘my hair grows so fast.’

T’hy’la. You command the ISS _Enterprise_. We will make our own time.

Christmas. That was supposed to be our first Christmas. Fuck the UTE.

We will make our own time. They can do nothing to us now.

(hands, thread together. mouths touching. that’s all that matters )

He smiles. Without fear, without eyes, without memory. Smiles, sees Spock.

 _O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest._

(forget, t’hy’la. for if the cost of love is a life of fear, it is too high a price)

(I wanted to tell you—give you—everything. You gave me what I wanted most, but I wanted you more. I wanted you more.)

“Dell, let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ‘em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. Now suppose you put the chops on.”

“My hair grows so fast, Jim. My hair grows so fast!”

 _Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi._


End file.
